


You Cannot Save Her.

by snewvilliurs



Category: Final Fantasy XIII
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-03
Updated: 2013-10-03
Packaged: 2017-12-28 08:05:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/989706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snewvilliurs/pseuds/snewvilliurs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dishonored"><i>Dishonored</i></a> AU.  She is his Empress, and he her Lord Protector.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Cannot Save Her.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been incredibly inspired by _Dishonored_ lately and [Corvo](http://oyster.ignimgs.com/mediawiki/apis.ign.com/dishonored/thumb/4/43/Corvofull05_update_2.jpg/228px-Corvofull05_update_2.jpg)'s designs really remind me of Rygdea's scruffiness, so obviously I was compelled to write an OTP thing--especially with how sad I got with all the hints that Corvo may have been Jessamine's lover and could be Emily's father, and even more when I learned that the Heart is actually Jessamine's.
> 
> But really: all the AUs, man.
> 
> (Title taken from the [Fallen Letter](http://cloud-3.steampowered.com/ugc/1135167635526689688/C0C7A8959BBDE7B55F5379B5E0CCE8CEB2344009/) that Corvo finds in the Void by Jessamine's body.)

She is twelve when he meets her for the first time, at a time in her life when her hair is a battlefield and her governess must tap a stick to her shoulders so that she will stop hunching them; she prefers sagging trousers to dresses and sword fighting lessons to etiquette in a bright-eyed attempt at rebellion that makes her both difficult and thrilling to guard.  Ten years later, she calls him by name and lines her eyes with black and fills her lips with crimson, walks barefoot through the Tower and dresses in lush skirts.  Crowned Empress, she is loved by her people, and by him.

He finds himself forgetting the girl that she was when he met her, knowing only in memories that she once existed; she is woman now, in flesh and blood, and though there is still the same fire in her eyes now as there was in what seems another life, it is a wiser one where she has grown as her body has.  She is beautiful, courted by many but married to none—if she is to produce an heir, it will be by freedom and by her choice, not by union.  He hears rare whispers, at times, against her way of life, but they cease under his gaze (they will learn, in time, to respect her as they fear him).  He is Lord Protector, and he shall safeguard her life and honour as she has chosen him to, offering her trust and part of herself with every single day.

There is not one in all the Isles who knows her as he does, and there is none who knows him as she does.

She is but twenty-two when she gives all of herself to him; he takes only because it is offered to him, lest he die with his own blade driven through his eye by her hand.  The brightness of day has gone and the light in the room is dim, where the flicker of a flame dances across her face as he lowers himself to one knee before her.  The touch of her hands is soft on his cheeks and he turns his head, ever so slowly, to kiss the inside of her wrist and smell faint wisps of her perfume.  The fragrance is not that of an Empress; it summons the picture of a young woman laughing by the beach in a Golden Age that is both memory and wish, and she is both Empress and this woman, all of whom he loves within her.

There is no black around her eyes and her lips are bare when she bends to kiss him, not as Empress but as herself, with her heart that beats along with his to the same rhythm.  The distance as she straightens up bids him to rise to his feet, hands sliding over her arms, the soft warmth of her skin, and he kisses her again.  She does not wish to part from him, and nor does he from her.  He follows her to the bed where they lie on colourful, lush bedding though the people on the other side of the river stack up plague-infested mattresses on top of each other to sleep above the rats, but for now, it does not matter; he will push away doubts and a strand of hair from her brow with a gentle swipe of his fingers that, for now, do not hold a blade.

As clothing falls to the floor discarded, she traces a scar across his ribs that she is responsible for, but that he considers a reminder of the day he failed to protect her.  The slash of a blade had been unforgiving in shedding his blood and rendering him incapacitated; he had watched from the floor, through hazy eyes, as the assassin approached her.  He had watched as she swiped the sword from his inert hands and beheaded her attacker in a flash, as blood splattered across her clothes and the fair skin of her face.  Today, he his blessed by her courage to still have her by his side, and he places a thankful hand over hers, guiding it to his heart.  _It beats for you_ , he tells her in silence.  Her eyes and lips read the words unspoken across his skin, and she is thankful, too—for him.

There is admiration in his every gesture, in the crystalline blue of his gaze and on his tongue as he kisses up her thighs, and up; there is love in her arms holding him close, the stretch of her neck that his lips find when her head tilts back against her pillows and her eyes close.  Behind these closed doors, he is hers, and she is his; when the sun rises he will walk one step behind her with a hand near his sword and she will miss him years later when he is not by her side, and she will write a letter in the muted light of dusk: _When you are near, my heart is at peace_.

"I am with child," she tells him one morning, without particular inflection.  He does not ask, for he knows he is the last lover she has taken in some time, with no further indication of her consideration to take another any time soon.  His heart leaps and pounds with pride but he only gives a nod.

"The Parliament will be happy," he says, with a touch of resentment that she knows he feels towards those who attempt to govern her.

An amused, mischievous smile plays on her lips, rich like red velvet.  "As am I."

She is their child, and not the Empire's.  She has the brightness and the hair, dark as ink, of her mother, but her eyes are of the sky, as are his.  She is beautiful, all smiles as she requests, wide-eyed, for him to hold her hand as if she knows that the Royal Protector is her father.  But it does not matter, even as he tucks her small hand in his and her mother smiles, wishing silently that he could hold hers; no one will know but the two of them, not even their own daughter.  There are hushed whispers, but that, too, does not matter, as long as there is no truth.

She writes the letter at sunset on the fated eve of his return, when sleep has quieted their daughter's requests for him, and when the sun rises, she looks out to the river, waiting for him.  Her expectance is masked where the girl's is open, for it does not matter to those who watch, but they are watching, looking, seeing.  As his feet moves over the marble steps and his arms embrace their daughter, she is watching, too.  His proximity has her longing, and all she feels is the subtle brush of his fingers against the side of her wrist before the attack.  The girl is taken.  Again, he watches, helpless, held back as he fails and a blade pierces through her; when he can move again, he catches her falling limply in his arms and does not cry for the Empress but for her, whispering her name: _Lebreau, Lebreau, Lebreau_.  Her heart is at peace as the light is taken from her eyes.

He holds her heart in his hands and she speaks to him from a world between worlds, where she is cold and lonely, and he misses her.  It only haunts him with each step he takes, oscillating between duty and cold-blooded revenge; it does not keep his chest from feeling so hollow.


End file.
